Disturbance
by Elysium66
Summary: Hermione Granger is used to the curious looks from her fellow students, but not from him. When the quietly confident Slytherin begins to look too closely, Hermione is unsure how to react. One thing is certain, his actions cause quite the disturbance.
1. Chapter 1

He was staring at her. Again.

She could feel the heat of his gaze scorching the downy hair upon her skin, adding a further layer to the depths of her thoughts that day.

It disconcerted her.

Hermione Granger considered herself to be well versed in many things. She was an avid reader, an intelligent and very able witch. She had received 11 OWL's in her fifth year, she had determinedly defended the rights of house elves since her fourth year, and she had fought varying shades of evil alongside her best friends since her first year. She was a Gryffindor; she was brave.

She was also a girl.

And it was precisely this aspect of her being that was the primary cause of her current disconcertion.

Why? Because he was _still_ staring at her.

As one of Harry Potter's best friends, she had become accustomed to a certain degree of staring from other students, fleeting looks of jealousy or mocking. She was not, however, used to the sheer weight of one's gaze upon her as constantly as this current one had been. And certainly not from the type of person who owned the gaze.

She raised a hand to push back some of the tumult of wild curls threatening to escape from their current encasement atop her head. Blinking rapidly, Hermione pushed her fork around the dish residing in front of her on the long table in the Great Hall, disinclined to eat her breakfast.

Her heavily lashed gaze swept upwards, hazarding a glance toward the table on the far side of the room where she knew the culprit would be sitting. As indeed he was. He continued to stare at her intently even after she had acknowledged his absurd behaviour with her curious glance.

Hermione could not help but reflect upon the lack of social skills apparent in the upbringing of Slytherin students. Flicking her gaze down the table, she asserted the lack of examples to the contrary and, shaking her head, turned her attention back to the untouched plate before her.

The unusual situation in which she currently found herself had started some two months prior - the cause of which was still unclear. She had attended one of Professor Slug Horn's infamous Slug Club meetings and had stumbled across him there.

Blaise Zabini was his name and, prior to that moment, she felt sure she had never laid eyes on him in all her six years at Hogwart's School of Witchcraft and Wizardry. This in itself had been a minor point of vexation for her as she had been quite sure she knew all of the students in her year level - _even_ the retched Slytherins.

But not he. Zabini's general inclination, she had immediately noticed, was to sink into the background. To be the observer and not the observed. It was clearly, in his case, a refined art.

How he had managed it for six years was quite shocking in itself, considering his exotic looks and his mother's _unfortunate _propensity for marrying men who would mysteriously die shortly thereafter.

In fact, the only reason her attention had been drawn to him in the first place was the derisive snort, which had erupted from him at her introduction by the Potion's Professor as the smartest witch in their year level.

Slughorn appeared not to have noticed. She was not so fortunate.

Hermione had turned her gaze to cast a stern look upon the guilty party, only to find herself looking at the heretofore unknown Blaise Zabini who had at the time been wearing an expression of such cultivated disdain as to cause an immediate and unquestioned dislike of him.

He was, after all, a Slytherin.

Hermione had then given him a look, which suggested just as much and had proceeded to ignore the insufferable unknown for the rest of the evening. Unfortunately, for Hermione, he had chosen his sixth year as the time to start cropping up everywhere: at meals, at classes - her classes no less, and of course at the Slug Club meetings.

Under normal circumstances, she would have immediately banished him as a blight upon her memory. Then the staring had started and even Hermione, beneath her feigned ignorance, could not help but to notice.

Perhaps that had been his intention. Perhaps he had chosen this year to make a name for himself and, in the grand tradition of his fellow housemates, had chosen to torment Hermione by way of making his debut. It seemed fitting to her. _Slytherins._

Assuming this to be the case, Hermione had diligently moved into research mode, determined to understand the enemy - for that was exactly what he was soon becoming.

She had had an extraordinary amount of difficulty in unearthing facts about the strange boy, presumably because, like herself, the rest of the student body was unaware of his existence. All that she had gleaned thus far was that he spent the majority of his time with fellow Slytherin and bane of her existence, Draco Malfoy, and although he appeared not to be as openly hostile as the blond, she was sure that like minds attracted.

Hermione had also learned of his penchant for Arithmancy, much to her own consternation. She found the subject to be terribly complicated, though she enjoyed the challenge. Where as _he_ would quietly sit at the back of the room completing his charts with an efficiency that left her deeply troubled and Professor Vector, deeply thrilled.

She had barely heard a word pass his lips in the few months since his presence had flickered her radar into action. She had hoped rather dismally that this was a result of the lack of intelligence rife within the inbred pureblood families. With that thought, her gaze lifted to encompass the sight of one Gregory Goyle committing unspeakable crimes upon his breakfast. She shuddered in mild horror at the sight.

Her revulsion increased as she turned to say something to Harry and was confronted by Ron and Lavender greeting one another good morning. Feeling rather queasy, she uttered a quick excuse about further readings to her friends and hastily removed herself from the vast hall.

His gaze matched her every step.

* * *

He was staring at her. Again.

Cursing inwardly, the dark skinned boy lowered his glance from the Gryffindor table to take in the sight of Goyle attacking a kipper with such an alarming amount of enthusiasm as to cause Blaise to lose his appetite entirely.

He had never much liked kippers anyway.

He pushed the dish before him away; instead reaching for the pumpkin juice, as his gaze unconsciously skittered over her once more. In all honesty, he was not sure he could explain his sudden fascination with the infernal muggle-born. She was presumptuous, over-bearing and painfully ignorant of her effect on the student body, male and female alike.

At first, he had considered her rather mundane looking, in that way that only muggles could be, what with their lack of proper breeding and the inherently striking features, which came with it - such as his own. She was in general a rather dismal sight, he had decided - with very few redeeming qualities. Yet he was intrigued.

Perhaps he, like Malfoy, was infuriated by her need to know and be right about everything. Though he had never really been preoccupied with her before.

He recalled the first time she had acknowledged him, at one of Slughorn's first little tête-à-têtes. She had been eagerly listening to the Professor's glowing report on her character, her cheeks suffused with a rosy glow and her gaze rather rapturous beneath the mountains of wild hair. In truth, the image had been ridiculous and he had snorted somewhat derisively, indicating he thought as much.

Her gaze had snapped from Slughorn to him and he had noted the flicker of confusion and surprise in her dark eyes. She had recovered quite quickly and had turned her attention back to the professor, though he noted her indignation.

Blaise had been amused at her consternation. She had not recognised him, despite them having shared numerous classes (much to his chagrin), and she had been left flustered and unsure of how to retaliate.

The silent triumph had been rather delicious and he found he now understood, in part, Malfoy's inclination to rile a reaction out of her. She made it far too simple.

Faint footsteps resonated in his mind and he glanced up in time to see the subject of his musings walking out of the Great Hall.

He waited a beat before giving into his impulse and following her out the door. He had double Arithmancy first thing, and the class was due to start in approximately 20 minutes. He would wait there.

He ran a long fingered hand through the sleek black hair, which fell with frequency over his eyes, as he directed his tall frame passed the various paintings, which lead the way to the fourth floor classroom.

His footsteps echoed off the walls as he turned the corner and noted Granger standing primly by the locked classroom. Blaise continued his pace, despite a sudden and inexplicable urge to slow down. She glanced up and, seeing him, visibly stiffened before concentrating deeply on the stone underfoot.

He came to rest his frame languidly against the opposite wall and proceeded to gaze at her unabashedly. She must have felt it to because she began to squirm and fidget more than she usually would.

'What?'

Realising she had spoken; he merely raised an eyebrow and continued to stare - into her eyes this time. It made her uncomfortable, he noticed. It was all the motivation he needed.

'You're staring at me. It's rude.' As she said it, she raised her hand in an unconscious gesture to smooth her hair and brush any potentially present marks from her nose.

He noticed it all.

Furrowing her brow, she gazed at him rather wearily, as though he were an unknown specimen of flobberworm before turning her relieved gaze toward the oncoming horde of students, which had just rounded the corner.

Watching the absurd girl scurry into the classroom, Blaise Zabini vowed to himself in that moment to be the primary source of one Hermione Granger's discomfort.


	2. Chapter 2

_Merlin_, she was a strange one. He almost could not decide whether he found her bizarre concentration boring, or utterly fascinating. And this in itself caused him no small amount of disconcertion.

Blaise Zabini sighed, his long and slim fingers drumming a tattoo upon the dark wood of the desk at which he was seated. The thrum of whispered voices was a buzz in his ear, and more than enough to allow him to tune out the monotonous conversation at his table.

Malfoy was moodily rebuffing Pansy Parkinson's frequently proffered questions of concern; Theodore Nott in turn was giving her repeated sidelong glances, whilst the presence of Crabbe and Goyle still confused Blaise, as he was quite certain he had never seen them in a library or indeed in such close proximity to books before now.

But it was none of his fellow Slytherin sixth year classmates that caused him his current consternation. Indeed that role was presently occupied by one Hermione Granger, who at that point in time was elbow deep in ancient tomes and appeared to be thoroughly enjoying herself.

He watched, bemused, as she nodded to herself before turning back to her copious notes, a smile of victory plastered across her partially hidden features. Such enthusiasm over school work was unnatural.

'What has you so interested, Zabini?'

Blaise turned his head to the owner of the intrusive voice, Malfoy of course, and quirked his brow in question.

'The mudblood? I hadn't realised your tastes leant so far towards the less… _fortunate_,' Malfoy uttered, a malicious sneer marring his features.

'She is a rather unfortunate creature isn't she?' Blaise responded with appropriate levels of disdain to cause Malfoy to lose interest and turn away, much to the relief of Pansy who had looked momentarily horrified at the prospect of _Granger_ being the centre of attention over her.

Utterly bored with the proceedings, Blaise pushed back his chair and slowly unfolded his tall frame. He walked away from the open seating area and the bustle of students shuffling papers and unclogging their quills, toward the back of the library where the tall mahogany book shelves resided.

If one walked deep enough through this maze of tomes and anthologies they were likely to find themselves knee deep in dust, such was its lack of use – with exception of the prodigiously over-studious Granger.

And she was _hardly_ normal.

Running a finger across one of the ledges, he grimaced at the thick ply of antiquity's residue smeared upon his skin.

'Oh!' The softly muffled sound came from behind him, and he whipped around to see the culprit.

It was _her._

Curls in all shades of brown framed her face, and he noted from this close proximity that she had a smattering of freckles on her nose. If it weren't so utterly _pedestrian_, he might have found it endearing.

'Surfaced from your books, have you?' He smirked at her surprised reaction.

'Oh… so you _can_ talk. Here I was thinking you were verbally challenged. It appears that it's only your social skills which are lacking.'

And, haughtily raising her chin, she made to push passed him. As for Blaise, well he was mortified at his present inability to come up with a suitably pithy response. It vexed him indescribably to have her get the better of him. This strange, overbearing _muggle born_ girl actually thought she was superior to him.

She _genuinely_ believed it.

He was completely bewildered by the strength of her delusions. And who on earth was she to call _him_ lacking in anything. In fact he'd have her know he was _not_ lacking, not in any respect!

Slightly buoyed up by this reminder, he let out a derisive snort, the kind he knew irritated her beyond belief.

She turned, and in a remarkable resemblance to Madam Pince, glared at him with squinty eyes and a pinched expression.

'Does it amuse you, is that why you do it?' The words were uttered in a low and even voice, one which should have sent red flags waving, but did not.

He raised a brow.

'You stare at me at me _all _the time, it's unnaturally and creepy. Do I have something on my nose? Is that what it is, you think it's funny following girls around the library because you have nothing better to do?'

'If you had something on your nose, I'd _hardly_ be the one to tell you. And for that matter I was in this aisle first – if I recall _you_ crept up on _me_. Now who's creepy?' He_ almost_ grinned at his unquestionable logic.

She stared at him in exasperation.

'You're rather rude actually.' He finished, looking, for all the world, the injured party.

Spluttering, Hermione interrupted. 'I'm rude? With all due respect, _Zabini_, you have clearly been using me as your own private mocking toy for the last month. Did Malfoy put you up to this, is that it? There's some little plan to irritate me? It's pathetic!'

Blaise watched this eruption, curbing any visual signs of his amusement.

'Lord, Granger you are _amazingly_ self-involved.' He glanced down at her, a grin threatening to creep upon his features once more as he took in the expression of self-righteousness upon her face, before turning and walking away.

* * *

She was fuming still. Some four hours after her encounter with the rudest, most repugnant individual she had ever come across. Bearing in mind she had had her fair share of run-ins with Draco Malfoy, this was saying something.

Hermione scrutinised her reflection in the dormitory mirror, smoothing her hands over invisible creases, before huffing out of the room in pent-up indignation. Descending the staircase from the sixth-year girls' dormitory, she noticed Harry poring over something in one of the overstuffed chintz chairs by the hearth.

'Harry.'

He glanced up distractedly.

'Oh, Hermione,' he paused to push the dark framed glasses further up his nose, 'I was just looking at some potions' notes.' He waved around the parchment to emphasise the point and she narrowed her eyes in scrutiny.

'You were looking through that book again, weren't you?'

'Oh, give it a rest, Hermione. It's just a book.' He sighed in exasperation.

After a pause, she asked in what she hoped was a dignified manner, 'So, where is Ron?'

Her companion's glance flickered over her left shoulder, and after an ill concealed shudder turned back to her.

'Oh.' He need not further elaborate. But little did he know, that a reminder of Ron cavorting with the singularly unintelligent Lavender Brown was the very last thing Hermione needed on this horrific afternoon.

'Should I assume you won't be coming to Professor Slughorn's tea tonight?' Ignoring the one major detraction from the potential enjoyment of the event, she continued, 'they're usually quite enjoyable actually.'

Harry looked up from the parchment once more. 'Hermione. Seriously.'

She sighed.

'Alright so he can be a bit over-indulgent, but some of his stories _are_ interesting. Besides it wouldn't do you any harm to go for once, to stop obsessing about bloody Malfoy and all this half-blood prince nonsense.'

He didn't respond and she took that as her cue to leave. Try as she might she could not avoid the sight of _Won Won_ and his paramour playing doctor in the corner of the common room. When Lavender raised her head to smirk in Hermione's direction, she saw red and stormed out in high dudgeon.

* * *

A short time later she was seated in Slughorn's office around a vast oblong table heaving under the weight of life's excesses. Jugs of pumpkin juice, and platters of cheeses and fruits and small cakes covered almost every square inch of space, so that all the people seated there could not find room to place an elbow, let alone eat with any semblance of comfort.

Ordinarily this would have annoyed Hermione, but this evening she was in want of distraction. The sudden sensation of being watched prickled her skin, and she knew immediately who the culprit was. She refused, however, to acknowledge his absurdly rude, but unsurprising, behaviour and instead tuned back into the droning one-sided conversation of her seating companion.

Cormac McLaggen was presently recounting one of his many amazing Quidditch saves with extraordinary gusto. Although how she had managed to find herself in this conversation; she was quite uncertain. In fact she rather thought it had less to do with him perceiving her to be a Quidditch fan, and more to do with an inherent obliviousness to his own powers of monotony.

Nevertheless he appeared to be the only male in the whole grounds of Hogwarts that was _not _behaving out of character, and she found she ought to be grateful for small favours.

'So… Hermione is it?'

Oh, he'd recalled her presence! Miracle of miracles.

'Er – yes.'

'Right well, you may as well come to the Slug's Christmas Party with me. You don't have a date _do_ you?' She couldn't decide which annoyed her more: his presumption, the emphasis in his question which seemed to imply that anything other than a 'No, of course not' would have come as truly shocking; or the deep chuckle resounding from somewhere to her left which sounded uncomfortably familiar.

'No, I don't have a date but - '

'Well, that's settled then! Be a doll and pass me the marmalade whilst I tell you about that time when I…'

_A doll?_ She cringed outwardly, tuning him out as he regaled her with more enthused stories of his brilliance on and off the field. She chose that moment to chance a look at the usually collected Slytherin across the table. He was, in fact, rather _un_collected at that moment, involved in the task of subtly inching his chair away from a fourth year Hufflepuff with an alarming propensity for spitting as he spoke.

The sight cheered her immensely.

Still eyeing him in amusement, she pondered the reasoning behind his bizarre behaviour. Not that she could call herself an expert on him, no indeed, but she knew for a fact that he could not have always been this strange – she was rather certain she'd have noticed.

Her eyes became unfocused with her musings, and it took her a moment to realise that he had extracted himself enough from the aforementioned Hufflepuff to stare intently back at her. She jumped slightly when her now focused gaze clashed with his.

He was actually very attractive, she thought, if one found the whole tall, dark and handsome cliché to be appealing. But then, she mused, she had been interested in a fair-skinned red-head and look where that had gotten her. Leaning in slightly, she studied the unusual shade of his eyes with the same level of attention she applied to an advanced arithmancy problem.

She was completely oblivious to his expression.

And just as she asked herself whether such a vivid shade of indigo was indeed even _natural_, she felt something scratching up her leg. Breaking from her trance, she glanced down to see a curled up piece of parchment climbing over her school sock.

In utter bewilderment she snatched at the paper, and unfolded it to read the following.

**And you said **_**I**_** was creepy. Didn't anybody tell you that staring is rude?**

A dark flush crept upon her cheeks at the words, caused by equal amounts of humiliation at being caught staring so blatently, and at the slightly leery expression on his face as she looked up.

_Good grief_! He had assumed she was _perving_ on him. Blanching at the ridiculousness, she excused herself.

'If you don't mind, Professor, I had better get on. I have…prefect duties.' And despite being flustered, she shot a final glare at Zabini and stalked out of the room as haughty as humanly possible.

Men, she decided, were the cause of all of life's problems.


	3. Chapter 3

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* * *

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Author's Note: As you might have noticed, it has been a considerable amount of time between updates and posting of new stories for me. This is not because I haven't been writing, but rather because I have been posting them all on the archive that I co-run called The Dark Mark. It is a Harry Potter fanfic and original fiction archive that supports quality writing and it is the only place where _all_ of my stories are available. If you would like to get the link please contact me whether you're interested in reading, or in posting your own stories. :)

* * *

If she had known how swiftly her day would fall to ruin, Hermione Granger might have, for the first time ever, skived off classes for the entire day. As it were, she had _not_ been blessed with such foresight, as she was so frequently reminded by her former Divination teacher, and was therefore left to deal with the very unsavoury truth before her; one which could be summed up in one seemingly innocuous letter, but that which left her feeling entirely wrong-footed.

Hermione tuned out the buzz of the surrounding voices which chattered away, and focused once more on the lengthy roll of parchment before her. Line after line of her scrupulously neat penmanship greeted her beady gaze; but it was the small marking on the upper right hand corner of the page that arrested her attention.

It read simply, E. Exceeds Expectations. This might have seemed a wonderful thing were she someone else, someone with little talent, intelligence or application. However, as she had these qualities in abundance, and felt assured that she was not remotely that sort of a person, she instead was overcome not with joy but a conflicting sense of confusion, denial and mild horror.

Hermione Granger did not _get_ that sort of mark on her school work, and could clearly recall the one cringe-worthy moment in the previous year when she _had_ for Defence Against the Dark Arts. It had been a briefly dim moment in her shining school career; one that she knew would never be repeated. Her work was nothing if not outstanding.

It was for precisely this reason that Hermione's impatience for her third period Arithmancy class to end saw her wilfully staring at the clock on the wall and not at Professor Vector's neatly written notes upon the board.

It infuriated her to no end that the Professor would go about her business with no concern for what Hermione thought was blatantly shoddy workmanship. However, she did soothe herself with the knowledge that once the class was over she would confront the woman and demand that her homework be reassessed. Everything would be fine, and her teacher would perhaps take a little more care in her work in future – something which would benefit more than just herself, she was sure.

It was the knowledge of this that caused Hermione to relax and peel her gaze from the small brass hands of the wall clock. The remaining fifteen minutes of class flew by immeasurably faster after this.

And so it was that after a few minutes of careful repacking of school books that Hermione approached her previously highly esteemed Arithmancy teacher with what she hoped was a calm and easy demeanour.

Professor Vector was a woman of entirely non-descript features and Hermione often found herself perturbed by the fact that she might never have been able to locate her in any situation that did not involve the woman sitting or standing behind her desk.

The professor offered her a vague sort of smile that Hermione supposed one would ordinarily consider kindly. In her present state of agitation, however, she read only condescension.

'Miss Granger? What can I do for you, did you have a question about class or…?'

Hermione smiled a benevolent sort of a smile and responded. 'Actually, Professor, it's about the mark I received on my last homework.' She paused to indicate the offending article and supplied enough time for the woman to interrupt with her sincerest apologies at the error. Instead she gave Hermione another bland smile and an encouraging nod.

She was a bit thrown of balance by the strange non-reaction but continued anyway. 'Right. Er – well, you see it's an _exceeds expectations_ and I don't think that's correct. I–'

Hermione felt something akin to nausea as she saw realisation light in the eyes of the older woman combined not with guilt as would be expected, but that dreaded thing, pity. She finished somewhat lamely and watched as Professor Vector gingerly removed her glasses. Stalling.

'I'm afraid that mark _is_ indeed correct. But Miss Granger, that is a _very_ impressive result for a NEWT level Arithmancy assignment. Considerably higher than average.'

Nonplussed, Hermione continued valiantly. 'But… I triple checked all my calculations and my responses were cohesive –'

'And that resulted in an excellent mark as you see. However in NEWT level a certain affinity with the subject is required to take it to that next level of excellence. Something which isn't always to be gleaned from books…'

Hermione was utterly flabbergasted. She eyed the woman before her for a long moment, feeling as though she had, for the first time, been stunned silent by a teacher.

'I… don't understand.' She could feel her cheeks flushing as they did when she was anxious. 'Where would I learn it from if the resources aren't available?'

She watched with increasing resentment as the women bestowed yet another _softly_ expression, as though she were dealing with someone on their death bed. She paused. Again. It couldn't possibly be good.

'Well… in all magical studies an element of intuitiveness with one's subject does enable you to really understand it _more so_; in much the same way that some students are naturally excellent at quidditch and others are not.'

Hermione, whose natural affinity with flying was nonexistent, found the woman's example to be not remotely encouraging. She stared, agog. The hysteria was building and it erupted in her next statement.

'But that's not fair!'

It sounded utterly childish but she couldn't control the outburst. Hermione coughed to hide the momentary feeling of embarrassment at sounding so much like Ron.

Sighing, she tried a new tack. 'Professor, application is not something I lack. I am willing to go the extra mile to do the best in this subject, but I need to know that there is _something_ I can do. I received an outstanding OWL for this subject, _surely_ that will tell you something!'

She eyed the woman and felt a burgeoning sense of relief when resignation registered in her gaze. Success.

'OK, Miss Granger, your determination is certainly… admirable.' Hermione's gaze narrowed somewhat at the unflattering pause. 'I shall have a think about what best way to help you with this. In the mean time, however, please try not to rely _too_ heavily on instruction from books. They can be quite mentally restricting with this subject.'

Hermione nodded, ready to leave, but turned back quickly to ask one burning question.

'Professor? You did say that the assignment was quite difficult… did, er – did _anyone_ get an Outstanding?'

The warm flush that infused the older woman's cheeks said it all.

'Yes… there was one.' Hermione could have sworn she detected a hint of breathlessness.

Stalking out of the classroom, Hermione couldn't help but reflect that she really _should_ have stayed in bed that morning.

* * *

Pansy Parkinson undulating against _anyone's_ hipbone was disturbing enough. The fact that it was _his_ made the whole ordeal unutterably worse.

Blaise Zabini's rejection of the offering held a touch more finesse than Malfoy, who had unceremoniously shoved her from his couch, and was apparently _so_ refined and discrete that the girl had entirely missed it.

After another moment of being ignored completely, she seemed to glean a little something of his bored expression and in what he felt sure she believed was a demure and ladylike huff, left the couch and stalked away.

Blaise had never been a huge fan of Pansy, he found her tolerable usually, but her bizarre behaviour of late was truly driving him mad. It was all a result of the increasingly removed demeanour of fellow Slytherin and her favourite, Draco Malfoy, who ordinarily thrived on Pansy's lavishly bestowed attention.

Nowadays, though, he seemed either oblivious or irritated at the interruption to his thoughts. Though no one would ever suggest that Slytherins were known for confiding in one another, Blaise was quite sure he knew the cause of this colourless, introverted Malfoy.

He glanced up from inspecting his cuticles in what he thought had been a very discrete manner, to watch the pale-haired boy. He was drumming his fingers in fast pace across the heavy brocade covering of the sofa on which he was seated. His posture was rigid and his eyes flittered from one thing to the next without seeming to see anything at all.

In any other situation Blaise might have sympathised with Pansy, but using him as a means to draw her beloved's attention did not bode so well with him.

He leaned further against the back of the sofa and allowed his legs to stretch across the cold stone floor. An eerie greenish light filtered down across the stone and seemed to ripple as waves do. It was quite ethereal if one stopped to really take it in.

His attention was called once more as Pansy returned to the fold, and Blaise struggled visibly to conceal his disdain before deciding that the girl was so accustomed to it she surely could not be _too_ insulted.

The dark-haired girl sat down and eyed Malfoy once more. Clearly deciding that he was truly a lost cause in that moment, she chose instead to amuse herself with other pleasures, namely the mocking of her least treasured fellow students.

It was a frequent practise of hers that he found little enjoyment in observing and so tuned her out once more. And it was not for some minutes, until he heard her utter the words _Granger_ and _tantrum_ in the same sentence that she had his interest again.

'– and she positively screeched at them!'

'At whom?' Blaise enquired with a bored nonchalance bred of much practise.

Eagerly, she turned to him, her expression rapturous as only gossip could cause it to be. 'Potter and Weasley of course! Who _else_ would it be?!'

He smirked.

'They probably touched a book inappropriately. I highly doubt it was anything to get excited about.' He paused and glanced back at her.

Determined to build this into a saga worth retelling, and hence falling into Blaise's trap, she continued in greater detail.

'It was in the hallway after third period. Apparently she was taking all her frustrations out on her little friends and they didn't like it. Practically in _tears_, I heard.' Her tone had turned conspiratorial.

Blaise quirked a brow again. He had third period Arithmancy with the aforementioned harried muggleborn. Despite his best efforts he could not help but wish to know the cause of her irritation, and hence congratulate the instigator of it.

It had been some weeks since their last strange encounter. Blaise had received much enjoyment at being a cause of aggravation to the girl but could not help but notice that she had taken to avoiding him of late. _Not_ that this was particularly unusual, they had only ever had a handful of exchanges, but they were hard to forget. Particularly because he felt he knew her better than she thought he did: the result of his months spent observing the witch.

She had clearly been miffed at his attitude to her; obviously she found the concept of a person not deferring to her intelligence to be a mark of some inherent evil. Yet in spite of the amusement he had received at her expense, Blaise had been quite content to accept this situation. Spending any time conversing with muggleborns in this climate, even if only to exchange insults, was not a wise decision.

Blaise, much in line with his ancestors, was not one to kowtow to a dictatorship. That said he was neither stupid nor noble enough to stand in the way either. The Zabinis craved notoriety and money; their vice was vanity and not ambition. They were certainly not a family to serve a higher cause

Still, despite acknowledging the danger of associating in anyway with someone of Granger's unsavoury heritage, he found the habit of studying the girl a difficult one to kick. It was for this reason that he had found himself taking the occasional covert glance when he could. But her behaviour of late had been so thoroughly _un-_entertaining that he had begun to wonder what had piqued his curiosity in the first place.

She appeared now, for all intents and purposes, to lead a thoroughly uninspiring existence in spite of her unique absurdities.

'Zabini!' A voice interrupted his introspection and Blaise glanced, without interest, at the offender. Pansy was watching him, yet again, with greedy little eyes. 'What's got _you_ so distracted, hmm?'

He imagined she thought her teasing to be coy and enticing. It was, categorically, _not_.

'Nothing too thrilling, I assure you.'

She smiled like a cat with the proverbial cream. 'Well in that case, you might want to accept the scroll from that boy hovering behind you, and tell us all about it.'

So _that_ was the reason for her sudden interest. Pansy Parkinson was nosiness personified.

Blaise lifted his head from its resting place against the back of his chair and glanced over his shoulder at a twitchy looking first year who was holding a scroll in his equally twitchy fingers. He accepted the scroll and with only the slightest of hand gestures, signalled dismissal to the much relieved messenger.

Why teachers insisted on using first year students to pass on messages when they could scarcely locate their thumbs, he would never understand. With a casual flick of the parchment, Blaise scanned its contents with a small measure of interest.

Upon scrunching it up and rising from his seat, he noted the hungry expression upon his odious classmate's features and knew she was desperate to know the contents of his letter.

He'd let her stew a little longer.

Inclining his head to signal his departure, Blaise left the eerie green light of the common room and walked in the direction of Professor Vector, with whom he had been asked to speak - about what, he could not begin to imagine.


	4. Chapter 4

_A/N: Hi guys, I'm back again after a very long reprieve and fully intend to update this story more often. I had my final year of my degree and a whole lot of other stuff going on which took away from my writing. Please review, it makes me happy :)_

* * *

**Disturbance – Volume IV**

She was in an almighty huff, the likes of which had not been seen since that of Maravagnia the Malicious before her beheading in 1352. Only in this instance, Hermione Granger rather felt like being the inflictor of pain as opposed to its reluctant recipient. Nothing, including the delicious spread of roasted potatoes and wonderfully rich gravy, could hope to hold her attention.

She was seated on the roughly-hewn wood bench of the Gryffindor table in the Great Hall, supposedly eating dinner with the rest of the school, but she found the prospect of putting _anything_ in her stomach quite unappealing. Instead, Hermione deftly pushed the clumps of congealed brown mush around her plate and attempted to tune out the bustle of noise around her. Clanging plates, and the rise and fall of inconsequential chatter formed the melody to which they always ate their dinner, but that evening she found little tolerance for anything.

The reason for her extreme agitation had much to do with a very unsavoury time spent in her fifth period Arithmancy class. This was, unfortunately, starting to resemble a pattern. It was particularly unfortunate given the fact that she had always quite enjoyed the subject; whilst now it reminded her only of dismal failure. And Hermione Granger did not accept failure of any sort.

She had not been looking forward to that afternoon's class in the slightest, particularly given how she had behaved the last time she spoke to Professor Vector. However, in spite of her trepidations, the class had begun without a hitch and not a word from her teacher in relation to their discussion. Although Hermione was eager to hear what suggestions the professor would share with regard to improving Hermione's apparent lack of intuitive thinking, she feared mostly that the woman would have none at all.

After all, she clearly was not _that_ concerned about her pupil's education. That was just another indicator, as far as Hermione was concerned, that the woman was not nearly doing her job right.

In any case, Hermione had been running a couple of minutes late for that class. She had taken the longer route to the classroom in order to avoid running into Ron and Lavender, who had by all accounts traumatised a large group of first years with their goodbye in front of the main staircase. Hermione, feeling no need for yet another reminder of how dreadful her year had been thus far, gladly took the scenic tour.

She had arrived just before the professor, but after most everyone else. Only _he_ seemed to have notice this, however; and she found that very odd indeed. It had been quite some time since she had last had any sort of interaction with the socially inept and egocentric reprobate from Slytherin House. Although she had been very much relieved to no longer be watched like a bug under a microscope, she could not deny the inconsistency of his behaviour perplexed her. As she bustled into the room and made her way to sit next to Ernie, she noted Zabini's coolly assessing gaze upon her. Unwavering, as it had come to be.

Instinctively, she had thrown her shoulders back and squared her jaw, which she had regretted later after the thinly veiled amusement which lit his features. She hated being baited by anyone, mostly because she rose to it on every occasion. Something to work on, she mused.

The class had been a quiet one; with most of the small number of students consumed in unravelling a complicated series of calculations gifted them by the delightful Professor Vector. It was not until the end of class, when Hermione was preparing to leave, that her teacher requested she stay back a moment.

Her suggestion, the one which had apparently taken her two full days to form, was not remotely helpful in Hermione's opinion.

"Miss Granger, I think I have come up with a temporary solution to help you with the... concerns... you have about how you're progressing in this class." She paused to peer at Hermione, and tilted her head as though she were trying to figure her out. "Truthfully, though, you really needn't panic. You're doing tremendously well in this class – one of my best students in fact."

She was apparently trying to console her, but this fact was entirely unappreciated by Hermione, who felt that being scarcely better than a bunch of mediocre students was hardly _not_ cause for concern. If she were interested in only being above average, why had she worked so very hard for all those years at Hogwarts? If being semi-intelligent or borderline-irrelevant had been her objective, she would have spent more time testing out Fred and George's puking pastilles.

Her expression and complete silence must have made her line of thinking pretty clear because her professor sighed wearily before continuing.

"Alright then, Miss Granger, in my opinion the primary issue you're having is a bit of a... let's call it a block, shall we? A block or a narrowness of mind with regard to the subject." She removed her glasses and began to wipe the ugly smears which marred them. "I've told you before that the key to this study isn't always definitive answers. You need to really embrace an open way of viewing the subject, really change your methodology."

Hermione's brow was furrowed in confusion. All of that had sounded rather serious to her.

"I've arranged for a fellow student to make some time to sit and discuss these things with you. I think you will find some free discussion very helpful." She had smiled in an apparently kindly – but to Hermione's eye, very sinister – manner.

Her stomach dropped.

"You think I need a tutor," she had almost croaked.

Professor Vector shook her head quickly. "Don't think of it as tutoring; you're a more than able student. Think of this as having someone there to guide you through the subtleties of the art. Whether you choose to listen is entirely up to you." She peered at Hermione over her glasses in an imperious sort of a way, before ushering her out of the classroom.

Hermione grimaced in recollection of the entire conversation. It certainly sounded like tutoring to her, and if there was one thing Hermione knew, it was that she ought to only ever be a tutor and not the tutee. Nevertheless, she would go to the library that evening and very calmly listen to what the other person had to say. It was hardly their fault that she was 'narrow-minded'. She bristled again at the description, but could not help but recall the very similar comments she had received in her third year from a dithery Professor Trelawney.

The gloomy turn of her thoughts was interrupted by a nudge from Harry, who appeared to have been muttering in her direction for quite some time.

"- not even having dinner, see? You _know_ that's not like him... git likes to lord it over everyone at dinner." She should not have been surprised that Harry's interest had turned from the Prince to the only other topic which seemed to hold his interest these days: Malfoy.

"Missing out on pudding doesn't necessarily make him a Death Eater, Harry!" She cried in exasperation. He muttered something she could not make out, and they both gazed in the direction of the Slytherin table. Hermione shuddered in disgust at the sight of Pansy Parkinson sitting so very closely to Zabini.

Not that it was any concern of hers, but really, despite being a pompous git she had thought Zabini had more pride than _that._ A momentary image of the two together, embraced in a Ron-Lavender-like entanglement of limbs made her blanch. He saw it too, because he glanced up from his food then, and stared down the straight line of his nose back at her, brow raised in question.

Why was it, she wondered, that whenever she looked his way he _always_ caught her staring. It was horrible mostly because she hated for him to think she did it all that often.

Because, of course, she didn't.

*

Later that evening, Hermione trudged out of the Gryffindor common room, walking, with much reluctance, in the direction of the library. She was in no mood to meet with anybody, least of all the auspicious person who deemed themselves so superior as to think they were capable of offering _her_ assistance.

If her day had been bad, it was nothing by comparison to the steadfast downward direction her evening had taken thus far. She had fought once more with Harry, well and truly breaching her argument quota for the day. It seemed incredibly unjust to her, given the horrific turn of events in her Advanced Arithmancy class, that she should _still_ be second to an undeserving Harry in Potions.

Stalking through the library doors, Hermione was fully prepared to scoff at the person waiting for her. She assumed it would be a Ravenclaw, since Ernie - despite his disproportionate sense of self-importance - was not all that good at Arithmancy. And even Professor Vector, oblivious though she may be, would never attempt to procure assistance from a Slytherin. Hermione only hoped it was not that jabbering Lisa Turpin. How that girl had been sorted into Ravenclaw still continued to perplex her.

She turned the corner into the wide open space, occupied only by neatly arranged study desks; her eyes sought out the inevitable blue collar of a robe.

She was much dismayed at what she found.

***

The way Granger's eyes had bulged out of their sockets seemed to defy the laws of gravity. Were Blaise not so completely horrified at the sight, he might have been amused. He eyed the girl speculatively, waiting for her to say or do something, but fearful for his safety for one small moment. She looked ready to inflict pain, and he saw no need to feel the brunt of it. Despite being a witch, he felt entirely certain she would forget about her wand and bite him.

Such a heathen sort of action, but she _did_ spend an unhealthy amount of time around Weasley. Well, not lately, he conceded. But six years had done quite enough damage.

He took in the flush of red which rose intriguingly from the collar of her jumper, and the way her absurdly thick hair seemed to have a life of its own. His inspection stopped when he noted the dangerous flare of her nostrils, as she attempted to regain her faculties before speaking.

"You." She said the word as though it was beneath her to address him at all, and he felt rather affronted at her audacity. _He_ had been wrangled into sitting in this dusty library on a Thursday night to talk to her about _her_ issues. Yet she looked for all the world as though he had dragged her there forcibly.

Blaise raised a brow in disdain; he knew how much the simple action irked her, before gesturing for her to sit down. She was like a common mule with all this misplaced stubborn pride.

"What on earth makes you think I want _your _assistance?" She bit the words out quite cattily, and he could see that any attempt at civility was a strain on her sensibilities.

"Well... the fact that our borderline aged professor would have given me the earth, moon and stars to get you off her back. Really, Granger, a little gratitude wouldn't go astray."

"Why, you –"

"Oh, for Merlin's sake! Do you _really_ think that I want to be here? Either sit down or go away." To illustrate his point, he lowered his head and appeared thoroughly absorbed in the volume which sat open before him.

The effort it took not to smirk triumphantly when she finally sat down, with much reluctance, was considerable indeed. In fact, he would never in a million years have accepted Professor Vector's request to assist Granger in their Arithmancy class if it were not for this exact moment, getting to witness the gloriously pitiful expression on her face.

He sniffed the air. It smelled like victory, and he greedily soaked it in.

Truthfully, given the volatile times he probably should not have said yes anyway, but Blaise quite liked the idea of having an excuse to bait Granger up close and in person.

The sound of her fidgeting called his attention, so Blaise closed the book with a snap and faced her head on. Her expression was expectant. Did she really just assume he could dish out enlightenment in a pretty confection of wrapping paper? Apparently so.

"Well..." She asked, and her impatience was barely concealed.

"Granger... you _do_ realise that there is more to this than me giving you a couple of words of advice and sending you on your way. By all means, we can take that option and drop the pretence, but..." He paused and shrugged nonchalantly.

"But?" She queried, eyes narrowed. He could never recall her being this monosyllabic in six long years of schooling. It was quite thrilling.

"But that won't get you anywhere. It's your attitude that's the problem." He leaned back against his chair; limbs sprawled beneath the desk and waited for her to explode at the slight.

She rewarded his expectation immediately.

"_My _attitude?! I thought this was about _learning_. I did _not_ come here to be abused by an egocentric and, might I say, _ignorant_ individual like yourself. Goodbye."

She was just extricating herself from the chair when he waved at her and told her quite forthrightly to sit back down.

"I'm not insulting you, so stop taking everything as an attack. Vector mentioned that you were looking to broaden your thinking about the main concepts, and to stop being so detail-oriented. Am I right?"

She sat back down with as much dignity as she could muster. It was quite enjoyable to watch. "I'm not _that_ narrow-minded. And if what you have to say will help then I'll listen." He actually grinned at the prim and restrained tone of her voice and had to conceal it quickly.

It would not do to be caught grinning at muggleborns.

"Then the first thing you should know is that you won't be needing those." He nodded in the direction of the heaving bag load of books which sat on the seat next to her. The forlorn look on her face was worth putting up with her complaints.

Yes, he decided, he was definitely going to enjoy this.

*

Blaise sauntered through the entrance to the Slytherin common room later that evening, and was so distracted by the turn of his thoughts that he entirely missed the questions which had been thrown his way.

The interrogator was Pansy. He really was perturbed by the amount of attention she was paying him.

"Well? Late-night rendezvous, was it?" She pouted in what she undoubtedly thought was a pretty manner, and Blaise's lip curled scornfully.

The irony of her question was not lost on him. A late-night rendezvous with Hermione Granger was an entirely absurd notion, not least of all because he seriously doubted she had ever participated in such a prohibited activity in her life.

"Actually, quite the opposite," was his only response. He thought for a moment about the way she had flushed pink with irritation and, at one occasion, embarrassment. She had pouted at one point too and he highly doubted she was even aware she was doing it. Unlike Pansy, hers _had_ been pretty, and that was something he found most discomfiting. He told himself it was just that it was so unexpected; he would not normally stare at her lips.

But he did tonight. He had watched the shapes they made when she was silent, desperately trying not to wring his neck for some comment he had made. Oh yes, Blaise enjoyed those rare moments when she was quiet. Yes, indeed.

"He was in the library with Granger." This contribution came from an unexpected source. Blaise and Pansy both whipped their heads around to see the fair haired boy who had only recently entered the common room himself. Malfoy was watching him with an intensity which had been lacking in his observations for quite some time. Interesting, he thought.

"You're kidding?! What were you doing with _her_?" Pansy was evidently horrified, and thanks to the screechy quality of her voice, Blaise was now partially deaf.

"Needs help with Arithmancy, apparently. Professor Vector's asked me to do it." He shrugged as though it were no big deal. Pansy looked disgusted, and Malfoy was very quiet.

He bid them goodnight and wandered up to sixth year boy's dormitory, with Malfoy hot on his heels. Neither said anything much before they went to bed and it was a long time before Blaise finally drifted to sleep.

It took Malfoy even longer.


End file.
